Blue Mountain
Excerpt from her novel
Synopsis
Blue Mountain is a fantasy set in the 80's in St Tropez and Cannes - where the skeletons of new apartment blocks look like rocket launchers and Mithraic sites turn into golf courses. A bad tempered lizard, an actress, a 200 year old man, and a child who cultivates poisonous plants help to dismantle reality.
Chapter Nine
Up, up in the snow covered mountains, strange things were happening, things which did not necessarily further the cause of reason. First there was an unusual amount of meteor showers. The observer at the weather station could find nothing in his experience or textbooks to explain this abundance. The rota was due to be changed and it was rather a dull posting, especially for anyone who was not particularly keen on rock climbing as the main means of transport. Unfortunately his grade was not high enough to merit a helicopter drop, but in 10 years, who knows. In any event he kept a notebook of events. But were the events real or imagined? The last chap had to relax for six months. His predecessor in turn had been carried from the mountain in a state of hypothermia. He, at least, had been spirited away by a helicopter even if he was naked and incoherent, murmuring 'I believe, I believe, so this is really it' and other banalities.
The second odd thing happened in front of the cross mounted in the hills, a tribute to the eight villagers who were executed by the Germans in retaliation for the death of a German officer and as a warning to other villages to cooperate. People from the valley rang the local radio station to say the cross was illuminated and the Virgin Mary was hovering nearby. It was as if an extra current of electricity had been released into the atmosphere and people were enervated and gifted with second sight. The police, however, were not amused when the switchboards jammed. One police officer walked outside to look at the sky and he too saw the cross lit up, but no Virgin Mary. As he also happened to be the Captain the phone calls were taken seriously. The following morning Nice Matin ran a short article on the evening's events and concluded that the police did not know the answer.
The third thing was rain. The sun worshippers of the Riviera could not deal with rain, particularly two days in a row. People overslept because it was dark. Other people lay hopefully next to their swimming pools. Formerly topless bathers wore chic one piece suits or tee shirts – and shivered. On the second day they took to the roads and created the largest traffic jam the Riviera had ever seen. Everyone was driving into the hills, to the lavender fields, to the Alps. What were they looking for aside from sun and something to do? Crafts-Perfume-Pottery-China: each little hill town specialised in something.
So things were badly out of balance. As the guardian of Occitan culture and expert on its cuisine, poets and writers, history, and who slept with whom Guido was engaged in deep thought. He knew that the big thing would soon happen. Speranza had nearly communicated the information he needed when Corinna Danieli interrupted his thought pattern by thinking about him. As he found this highly flattering he became distracted until Speranza disappeared in a huff. She could be a very morose and perverse lizard. So Guido thought it was time to see Corinna again, and as both were in St. Tropez at the time, the meeting was inevitable.
They met in front of the fish market. He gently tapped her on the shoulder, pointed to a fish and casually asked in Provencal, “Shall I cook that for you next time?”
“In English, Guido. I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about. It's very impolite to speak in a language which other people do not understand.”
“Ah. You've missed me.” Corinna blushed and said, rather waspishly, “Where have you been? Obviously not in Tahiti. Even Speranza is taken in by your stories.”
“Actually,” said Guido modestly, “I'm here working.”
“What! You work?” cried Corinna.
“Yes, how else do you think I live?”
“Off the state?” He shook his head. “We in Occitania do not recognise the state.”
“By being a wandering minstrel? Busking, perhaps? I've heard that students make a lot of money playing their guitars and singing to people in cafes. Evidently people pay them enormous amounts to make them go away and stop their indigestion...”
“I trust you are being facetious,” interrupted Guido. “One day your tongue will become stuck in your cheek, like most of the fish in this market.”
Corinna flushed, feeling on uneven ground and determined to raise her game.
“But what exactly do you do?”
“I write books in case you have forgotten. I also teach the old language and culture. Albert is my pupil and loves noxious plants. His father is my friend.”
“More of a disgrace I would say and definitely not in my favour. I'll kill him if I ever see him again. Suddenly she smiled, feeling a wave of sympathy for anyone faced with such dreadful days. Then she said abruptly, “I would like some lunch. Would you care to join me?”
He lead her to a restaurant overlooking the bay. She asked him to order a typical Provencal lunch. She was charming, utterly delightful and amusing. He paid the busker 100 francs to leave Corinna and himself alone. “Why,” he complained, “do you have to be so famous?”
“So that you'll be nicer to me. You have neglected me. Do you like me?”
“What a silly question. Of course I do.”
“Why do you keep disappearing? Have you really murdered your father? If not, may I meet him?”
“No,” said Guido shortly. “I'd rather put you in a nest of vipers with Albert.”
Corinna shuddered. “I think, perhaps, you don't like me very much at all. Is it an introduction to Hollywood that you want? Of course you are very vain and know that you have film star charisma. I can arrange a test...”
“I have to meet Albert now. I'm late for his lesson.”
“But when will I see you again? I'm sorry if I was rude or hurt your feelings. I was only teasing, that's all. Please forgive my high spirits.”
“You may act like a schoolgirl if you wish, but you can't prey upon me.”
“I'm quite sure I'm older than you are,” she said stiffly. “Actually I prefer older men. They have so much to say and...”
“How old are you, Corinna?”
“29. How old are you then?” she asked, her face warm, fearing he was only 18 or 19.
“200 this year,” he said throwing his napkin on the chair. “Please don't worry. Age is only relative after all. And I have a lot to say. Thank you for lunch.”
Corinna watched him hurry away, embarrassed by her unkind behaviour. “Oh Speranza,” she thought, “the most interesting person I've met in years and I've insulted him for no reason at all.”
***
Speranza who had been busy skittering between rocks and communicating something urgent to the fish in the river, sought refuge in the shade, wondering why mortals had to muddle things. She was so tired of unravelling their problems. Her morning had been tiresome enough already. The Danieli woman would have to suffer a little. Guido would have to suffer more for lying to her. She, Speranza, Queen of the Lizards, was going to have a long slumber underneath her favourite rock and woe to the golfer who bounced a golf ball anywhere near her. She had ways of dealing with such anti-social behaviour and she was feeling quite authoritarian today. So she slept.
Page(s) 19-21
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The